


by process of elimination

by fareehas



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: AU, Disabilities, Drinking, F/M, Hospital Setting, Slow Burn, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, autistic symmetra (as is canon), emotional & sexual tension, healthy ones too :"), hospital au, loss of limb
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-10
Updated: 2017-07-10
Packaged: 2018-11-30 05:26:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11456910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fareehas/pseuds/fareehas
Summary: “You must be Jamison Fawkes,” She guesses primly, and her voice is thick and warm in a pleasing way, a pretty accent rolling her words over like waves on a beach, “and you’re late.”Starting in his spot, he chuckles awkwardly, a hand lifting to scratch at the nape of his neck. “Right. Well, got stuck in some traffic on the way over,” he lowers his palm to tap it against the wheels of his chair, thump thump thump, “might look like a top shelf ride but it’s a bit bodgy around corners. Got stuck on at least three walls and got into a bingle with a gurney on the way over.” It’s a lie but, she don’t know that.She doesn’t laugh, doesn’t even crack a smile, and it bruises his ego way more than it has any right to. His smile wobbles but doesn’t drop as she eyeballs him up and down.“You are Jamison Fawkes, then?” She continues unobstructed from her goal and he sighs and nods. “Excellent. My name is Dr. Vaswani, I will be working closely with you during your recovery process. It will be pertinent that you not be late in to your upcoming appointments.” She doesn’t exactly sound unkind, more so, she sounds expectant and cold.Great. A real, right and proper suit. Just, spiffy, wonderful.





	by process of elimination

**Author's Note:**

> this fic is my baby and i'll be slow with updates, but hopefully you'll stick around til the end. i'd appreciate any and all thoughts and comments. they really help me out and give me a lot of motivation.

  
Life had never been particularly kind to Jamison Fawkes, but then again, life could fucking piss off. No matter how many times shit boils-over, he’s going to live through it. He’s a fighter, damnit. That much he’s determined.

In fact, life should have pissed off long ago. After it took his parents from him, followed by his arm, it should have taken the hint. When he didn't drown in a pit of despair, When he went on bloody living his life because what _else_ could he do? After all it had taken from him, it should have taken the hint.

 

Give up and roll over? Not his style, not at all.

Life’s a bounce.

Maybe that's why Life took went and snatched up his damn leg too. Like catchin’ fish in a tank, everything and anything of value is always up for grabs, especially from whatever higher power there is up there, out there, _wherever_.

Jamison doesn't much care for fate, family, love or circumstances, but he damn sure does enjoy living. Just for the bloody hell of it. To piss Life right the fuck off.

Mako always told him that he was too stubborn to die. Jamison reckons he’s right.

Doesn't stop it from sucking any less sometimes.

  
  


 

The morning barrels in offensively through the slitted ceiling, to floor blinds that outline the tall windows of the room, piercing through the fading grasp of his sweet, sweet REM cycle; he had been having such a fantastic dream about banging his hot new night nurse too. Awaking with a hiss, covering his eyes like a creature of the night, Jamison grumbles as he turns to face the inner portion of his room.

It’s funny because, he _specifically_ recalled Mako closing those before he took off last night. Right after they caught the jaws rerun for shark week, and before his best friend nicked his grape juice and left. He complained to his mate to close the blinds just to avoid an onslaught such as this.

“Rise and shine, Mr. Fawkes.” Comes a voice suspiciously located near the sparkling, golden rays of death. It’s deceptively sweet, even though he all too keen on the details already; too keen on the fact that he’s been _betrayed_.

“Clos’m,” he mutters, half asleep, far less threatening than he had intended.

“No chance of that happening, but if you _behave_ today, you may yet get two puddings as a reward.” She harps.

He sighs into the pillow, lifting a hand to rub his eyelids before halfway prying one open. “Whoever said you was a nice lady obviously doesn't spend much time ‘round ya. And listen,” he peels a second eye open into a bleary squint, listening as her footsteps bring her around by the foot of his hospital bed. “What’s this now? _Pudding_? You bribing me with pudding? S’that right?”

“If it’ll work.” Her usual accent pitches upwards in amusement.

His eyes adjust to the change in light as quickly as his mind awakens, sharpening like a pencil point with each ticking moment.

“‘Course it will. That even a question?” He grunts out, using his one hand to push himself upright in bed, finally takes sight of his lovely, familiar (evil, heinously overbearing) doctor.

He recalls the night nurse coming in around 4 hours prior to update his meds. He may or may not remember being told of his upcoming appointment with doctor Ziegler at 8:45am.

Lucio was his attendee last night, working the graveyard shift and looking worse for wear. Jamison wasn’t quite sure how he felt about Lucio. The guy was nice enough, great hair and a steady hand, but he was new to Jamison’s room; unfamiliar, unlike no nonsense doctor Ziegler.

Jamison determined that he needed a few more nights of study before he could know whether Lucio makes the cut. If not, he’ll start the pranks and fun, liven the place up a bit. Right now the only thing he was certain about when it came to Lucio, was that he might make a good fuck, and the man didn’t seem to give him those stern, judgy looks like some did. He doesn’t remember a single awry glance from the man, just all smiles and laughs. A nice change from the usual decrepit old ladies who seemed real picky about touching him too long.

There was none of that with Lucio, at least that much was a positive.

He had been growing anxious and stir crazy lately, picking on his new, admittedly nice-seeming night nurse. Might help shake the dust off.

All in all, it didn’t make a lick of difference to him, though. 8:45am, 11:30am; it's all equivalent to torture, in one way or another. Too bloomin’ early.

“I certainly hope so.” Doctor Ziegler gives him a chastising glance from overtop of her clipboard before her eyes trace back there. No doubt reading the update on his status as of several hours ago, the last time he was monitored.

Angela Ziegler and himself had become tragically well acquainted over his past several taxing, egregious stints at the hospital. Jamison had come to admire her strength, in the form of calm collectedness, or even her unflinching knowledge and truthfulness. Her ability to swoop in when he had questions, pain, a need. Almost like an angel.

 

She was the first doctor he ever met that was worth more than a grain of salt. He certainly didn’t dislike her ability to take his off-brand, quirky sense of humor and send it flying right back at him either.

The woman has all but single handedly restored his faith in all of doctor-kind, not that she probably knew as much.

“It says you were having some phantom pains last night?” She says carefully, thoughtfully, not a question so much as a way to open a dialogue.

He rakes a hand through his messy hair. “Yeah, right, well. Right that’d be.” He replies lamely, awkwardly looking down at the shallow, deflated space beneath the blanket where the lower portion of his leg would lie, if he still had it. “Reckon suddenly not having a leg would make the pain stop, but, I got some shitty luck.” It somehow sounds more self-deprecating than funny like he had intended.

Angela looks kindly at him as she set aside the clipboard, moving closer and pulling out her stethoscope from around her neck. “Time will fix that, Mr. Fawkes. Phantom pain after loss of limb is _normal_. You said the pain is localized in what feels like your calf? The one that you've had amputated?” She emphasized the word as if to make him feel better.

Mostly, he’s all too aware of her explanation, having gone through it all before with his arm. It doesn't take the edge off though, the whole being enlightened thing.

He nods in her direction, holding still as she appraises him in a sweep, physically first. The stethoscope makes its way to his chest before he can answer. And he speaks as she listens to his heartbeat and other vitals.

“Yeah, well…” He begins, but sputters to a halt.

The whole doctor thing is an insane concept to him. So far over his head. Jamison reckons it’s a noble thing, at least that's what people say, but he never trusted many doctors as far as he could throw them. Any he'd ever met who were alright by him, were either taken away or turned out to not give a shit about him. Neither professionally, as a patient, or personally as a man.

Don't sit right with him. Getting to know those intimate details about a bloke and somehow not givin’ a care. He thinks its a bit odd, right bit cold.

Even he, a self appointed engineer, tinkerer, genius extraordinaire, could never forget a thing he built. Always got real attached to it. Even down to the second he blew it up, he felt sour that it was gone, even knowing that he’d just build another, or another just like it.

Just don't seem right; getting to know a thing inside and out without growing at least a _bit_ attached.

But maybe he's just too sentimental. Besides, blowing shit up, the pure chaos and craziness it creates sure is fun. _Sentiment_ is best left for bedroom affairs and birthday cakes.

Anyways, Mako would call him a fool, a batshit fool for caring so much about the explosives and other mechanisms he made. Would call him an idiot for expecting any kind of suit, doc or sophisticated, intellectual type to care about him, too.

Jamison thinks he’d probably also be right about that. Mako is usually right, and trustworthy, too. More so than most suits he's ever met for damn sure.

He waits until the good doc moves away to try another response,not looking her in the eyes as he does. “Seems like it’s still there, hurts something awful at night, especially. Feels a bit different than when I lost me arm. At least, I think. Was a long time ago, though when that was nabbed.”

The woman offers him a puckered, yet affectionate smile. “You say _nabbed_ like it was stolen.”

“Wasn’t it?” He grins crookedly.

Her voice is wry as she nabs up her clipboard again. The warm sun that drifts into his room brings a radiant glow to her skin and blond hair. “If you choose to look at it like that. It was only what was necessary, though. Amputation was the only option both then and this time. I hope you don't feel the same about your leg.”

“Course I do, Doc.” He kept his tone light, even though the words were half true, mildly bitter. Maybe so as not to offend her. He isn’t sure when he got so soft that he cares what a doc like her feels anyways, but it’s rooted in by now and he can’t figure out how to go back. “You keep nabbing me limbs and soon there'll be nothing left. Like a lump of coal.”

He’s met with a tempered grin. “Very funny, Mr. Fawkes. Hopefully this is the last you’ll see of any _‘limb nabbing’_.” After scanning the board, she held it in both hands against her stomach and regards him seriously once again. “Now, it’s been almost a full week of healing, so starting Monday, you’ll be beginning physical therapy.” She informs him rather firmly, “I expect you to behave and attend, and try hard as well. You'll be fitted for a new prosthetic, but it may take some time to pan out. It is a custom piece, after all.”

He nodded and waved his fingers as if batting off a fly. “Alright, alright. Made your point. Just tell me when the torture starts, and spare me any more gruesome details. And don't forget the pudding I was promised, too, yeah?”

All in all, he's taking the loss of yet another limb, quite well. At least, from any outside perspective.

  
  
  
  
  
  


If he's late to any more important meetings, Jamison is quite certain that his Doctor will have his ass on a serving plate. He's all too consciously aware of just how lovingly _stern_ Dr. Ziegler could be when pressed. Puttin’ it lightly.

Still doesn't really stop him from being not just fashionably late, but _tragically_ so. Even knowing the grievous costs of such a blunder, he doesn't even try to right himself. Might be that stubborn nature of his, or might be something a bit more problematic and upsetting.

 

As such, on Monday, his first day of physical therapy in nearly 10 years, Jamison is dispensed by a series of unfortunate but also perfectly avoidable events. Beginning his day by sleeping in, not _accidentally_ oversleeping but actively deciding to ignore his alarm for the extra beauty sleep. Followed up by an indulgent breakfast in bed with his best mate by his side in the armchair, watching discovery channel in unified relaxation. He even took the time to shower, something he normally has a nasty habit of putting off until considerably after socially decency calls for. Normally it might be commendable but Mako recognizes it for what it is; an obvious attempt to further delay the afternoon's events.

 

He wheels himself towards the physical therapy room in his wheelchair, unhappily glaring at the tiles that pass beneath him. The pads of his flesh hand create friction as they slip over the wheels, and the metal of his prosthetic making a strange, zipping sound as it dances over the rubber. Luckily, he’s allowed to wear whatever he wants to his therapy meetings, not that damned, paper thin (not to mention ugly as sin) hospital pajama set.

Mako would argue that he don't look much better, what with his worn out and ragged cargo pants, sewn up with patchwork, complete with holes in the pockets. And it’s only with much nagging that he was forced to put on a t-shirt. His slightly too big tank top that hangs too loose on his frame on either side might not look too professional, but it’s probably better than showing up shirtless. At least the protruding hinges where his prosthetic connects with the muscles of his shoulder, keeps it from falling too far.

He avoids making eye contact with what was once his leg, the empty peddle of the chair meant to house a spot for his foot. It makes him uncomfortable, that gap that reminds him that he’s once again, unwhole. Like always, he guesses, between his arm and now his leg, just gotta lose one more and he’ll be more metal than man.

Perhaps he secretly mourns the loss of his leg, but the fact that he’s wheeling himself to the weight room (doubling as a physical therapy room) gets him there twice as fast as usual. It’s a positive, if the only one.

He wheels himself into the room with a wary, beedy glance around. Surprisingly, the survey turns up empty, no other patients filling the treadmills or machines that line the far of the room, nor any seated in the stiff, ugly chairs outside the door to the one office area.

He’s spent a lot of time in rooms like this; after his illness, after losing his arm, he’s all too familiar with it. And he fucking hates it, really grinds his gears. Even the spindles of muscles he’s gained from having to build up strength here, with his required diet and workout plan, enforced by the hospital, don’t make it worth it.

It’s work, right? Boring for a bloke to sit around lifing and working out all day when he could be inventing, tinkering and the like.

Exercise benefits aside, lock him up in a room with only tools and explosives for company _any_ day.

He glides his way towards the middle of the room, towards the office, realizing as he goes that there’s soft instrumental music drifting down from ceiling speakers. Doesn't sound like music he would normally listen to, and he ain't certain how to feel about it. It’s not quite classical, just a hair away from elevator muzak, but it definitely lacks vocals or lyrics. There are drums and flutes and tambourines, and Jamison takes  second to imagine working out to such sounds.

It just doesn't fit. He’s still trying (and failing miserably) to imagine lifting weights to such soft melodies when he hears the door to the office open. The doorknob twisting jars him from his thoughts and he looks up with a squint.

Someone steps out, a woman, no question about that; there’s a pristinely pressed, well tailored pair of narrow slacks chasing up the longest legs that Jamison has ever seen. He’s not even sure it’s exaggerating to put it like that. He’s in a wheelchair, therefore he’s got the finest, most accurate view, and from where he’s sitting, _legs for days_. White and blue shades everywhere, a bit matchy-matchy for his tastes, but definitely nice and expensive. A pair of wire-frame glasses sit upon her nose, and a wisp of a sideswept bang hangs loose, but otherwise it’s all tied away.

Jamison doesn’t think he’s ever seen someone who looked so polished and nice. She even gave his doctors a run for their money, but then again his doctors did have those ugly lab coats. Come to think of it, Doc Ziegler might do well in a nice women's suit, but that’s another story.

 

He didn’t even realize he had been staring, not until the expression before him (which he had barely realized she’d spotted him until now) became a bit pinched.

“You must be Jamison Fawkes,” She guesses primly, and her voice is thick and warm in a pleasing way, a pretty accent rolling her words over like waves on a beach, “and you’re late.”

Starting in his spot, he chuckles awkwardly, a hand lifting to scratch at the nape of his neck. “Right. Well, got stuck in some traffic on the way over,” he lowers his palm to tap it against the wheels of his chair, _thump thump thump_ , “might look like a top shelf ride but it’s a bit bodgy around corners. Got stuck on at least three walls and got into a bingle with a gurney on the way over.” It’s a lie but, she don’t know that.

She doesn’t laugh, doesn’t even crack a smile, and it bruises his ego way more than it has any right to. His smile wobbles but doesn’t drop as she eyeballs him up and down.

“You _are_ Jamison Fawkes, then?” She continues unobstructed from her goal and he sighs and nods. “Excellent. My name is Dr. Vaswani, I will be working closely with you during your recovery process. It will be pertinent that you not be late in to your upcoming appointments.” She doesn’t exactly sound unkind, more so she sounds expectant and cold.

Great. A real, right and proper _suit_ . Just, spiffy, _wonderful_.

“Alright, was just a blue, no worries. Reckon we got off on the wrong foot. Anyways, I’m here now. Let’s get this thing on with.” His tone is a bit sharp, in a way others might find too frigid but she nods, seemingly pleased.

“Agreed. Let’s commence.” She turns around, disappearing inside the office again and he stares with a bored stare. When she reappears, there’s an oversized tablet in her hands, tidy white fingernails tapping against the surface. Her digits dance over the surface with a speed and grace that he envies. He turns his gaze down to stare thoughtfully at his own unceremonious hands, calloused and ugly, nails painted black and knuckles swollen.  He suddenly feels fidgety for a reason he can’t pinpoint, and he finds himself gnawing on his nails absentmindedly. His pupils shift up at the sound of her voice but he doesn’t stop his idle chewing. “Your files inform me that you lost your arm 9 years ago, do you recall the process you went through? What form of therapy, what the process was like? Anything?”

He swallows and finds his lip curling around his index finger.

“Don’t remember much,” he diverts attention away, an spike of discomfort shooting through him at the memories it resurfaces.

Two dark eyes cease scanning his files to inspect him instead. “Nothing?”

“ _Nothin_ ,” he drops his hands back into his lap and slips down to a slouchy posture in his chair. “But trust me, ain’t nothing worth remembering anyways.”

“Did you participate in any kind of therapy to regain dexterity after losing your arm? It says here you weren’t in America when you lost your arm, you were in Australia?” She seems entirely undeterred by his tone of voice or body language in a way that sends him into defensive. It’s always like this with suits. They just don’t give a damn about anyone but themselves, their research, their jobs, the goal. He can already tell this is going to be one of those suits he complains to Mako about.

“Didn’t know physical therapy was gonna have so much chattin’ and so little _physical_. Seems a bit skimp on the therapy at the moment.”

Dr. Vaswani gives him a proper staredown, a frown tapering her strong brows into two tilted lines. “I’m merely trying to achieve a firm grasp on your history and understanding of the situation.” Somehow, she doesn’t seem offended by his acidity, pressing forward fearlessly. “But, perhaps I was slightly off track. On to the substance; do you know what sort of things you’ll be doing here?”

Her words, though slightly aloof, somehow managed to draw him back down from hostility. The beat of his heart, previously rising with each word, a familiar flame of anger lighting in him, was stoked to a shimmering coal instead. His voice is still rough but decidedly less combative. “Not too much. The Doc told me a bit, but truth be told, I weren’t really paying attention.” He finds a way to grin again at the memory of unintentionally tuning her out as he and Mako played cards a few days after his surgery.

Since meeting, his new physical therapist had maintained a chilly, professional expression, but upon his words, those features broke into a deadpanned twist. Lips parting with a sigh that seems to say she’s already learned his nature within just a few minutes. “I see.”

He chuckles, teeth peeking out in a genuine fashion at the canvas of her features turning sour. “You can give me a good earbash if you want. I’ll be on me best behavior.”

She claps the tablet in one firm hand at her side, offering him her full attention because apparently, it’s necessary. Vaswani wastes no time going right into it. “As you know, Above-Knee Amputation in most cases, is preventative but necessary. In your case, extremely necessary. You will be spending your time with me properly learning how to navigate with the loss of your limb. Your arm is nothing like your leg. Unfortunately, it is likely to be more complicated, at least until you have a proper prosthetic to replace it. Your mobility has been halved.”

He barked out a laugh, “Don’t gotta tell me Doc, y’know what it’s like walkin’ without a second leg?” It’s a joke but while her lip twitches she doesn’t smile, “It’s damn near impossible. That’s why I got me this wheeley mobile.”

“Yes, well,” she clears her throat. “The physical therapy will be intensive for a few weeks. I’ll teach you how to be safe. So long as you cooperate.”

He nods. “Yeah well. Gotta walk. Count on it, as long as it gets me up off my ass.”

“Right. Yes well, that it will. Also, Mr. Fawkes, in the future, please refrain from calling me _Doc_. My name is Dr. Vaswani.” She corrects him firmly and he snorts.

Uptight and crisp as always. What else could he expect from a suit though?

“Sure thing.”

He can’t wait to tell Mako about this.

  
  


 

 

It’s the second day of his physical therapy, the day the _fun_ stuff officially begins, and Jamison scowls out the passing windows as he rolls himself towards his appointment with his frigid doctor.

As if it could sense his mood, the sky had opened up this morning, torrents of heavy rainfall spattering his window in a harsh, angry melody. The normal delicate blue had corrupted into engorged gray clouds, morphing into a giant, dark overhang.

Normally, the rain might be welcomed, but today Jamison hopes it'll vanish before too long. It’s doing nothing to help his shit mood.

He hears the music before he even makes it to the room. Drifting through the open doorway, the same soothing, gentle instrumental music from the previous day.

It’s oddly fitted with the atmosphere set by the weather and Jamison's mood. When he breaches the doorway, the vibes are muted and quiet, amplified by the natural, haunting light from beyond the windows. Raindrops dance down the thick panes of glass and the desaturated sky gives the room a soft lighting.

He hears her before he sees her this time, a voice located somewhere to his left, the one area he had yet to glance towards. The sound of her voice, though low and calm, professional as always, gives him a start that has his wheelchair rattling as he jumps in place.

God, he hopes she didn’t notice. He’s fairly sure she did.

“You managed to be late again.” He spots her standing with immaculate posture, in her bleached white suit, and long dark hair, like a statue between two long rails. Long, horizontal bars, sitting on sturdy, bolted in legs that hold them securely in place. They look like they have no purpose, just two random rails making a pseudo walkway in the corner of the room, leading to nowhere with an entry/exit on both sides.

Of course, one good look at them and he’s keenly aware of what kind of a pain in the arse they’ll be.

“Though, not as late as yesterday,” she says thoughtfully, drawing his frowning gaze away from the contraptions on either side of her, to assess her features once again. “It’s a marked improvement. Aim to be on _time_ next time.”

Behind her, a distant streak of lightning cracked, a delayed _thwack_ of thunder splintering through dark clouds, lighting her up with angry backlight for a split second.

“No promises, Doc.”

She seems displeased, but he pays her no mind, wheeling himself closer with a growing sense of dread. Even if he wanted to, _needed_ to, walk again, he didn’t want to do this. He doesn’t _like_ this kind of thing.

Though it’s what he expected, he doesn’t receive any ear biting retort or quibbling over his lackluster response. He watches the ground as he moves forward, but when his palms scuff over the rubber wheels, glomming himself to a stop, he hears no such thing. His eyes seek her out again and she’s peering at him with a focused, unreadable expression. Her pretty, subtly shimmering lips are pursed, withholding words or intent.

“Alright. What sorta whatsit we up to today, Doc?”

“ _Dr. Vaswani,_ ” She corrects instantly and firmly, moving on without a hitch, “today I’ll test your limits.” The words cue another lightning strike and the sudden up tempo of his heartbeat.

“Shit,” he breathes, a nervous chuckle bubbling up from his throat. “Right then. Guess that makes sense.” Any good project requires a test stage, even with doctors and patients probably. Comparing it to his contraptions and explodies, it makes sense. Might even be the funnest part, for her anyways.

Probably gonna be nothing but trouble for him though.

She seems entirely unaware of his sudden anxiousness, a nod of her head as she motions for him to join her near the rails.

He does so with jittery nervous and shifting eyes.

It’s a reminder that he hates doctors, hates being sick and leaving his fate in other people's hands.

He wheels himself before her with anxiety winding up his spine like a tight coil, like cogs cranking him up into the stiffest, straightest of postures.

He peers up into deep brown eyes, lined with thick lashes hidden behind glasses that can’t even hide their quality.

Why’s she have to be so bloody attractive on top of it all? Jamison swallows down the urge to haul his ass out as fast as he can crank it. Adam's apple bobs in his throat from the effort of it, and he watches her eyes track the motion almost instinctively.

Now that he's closer, he realizes many things; firstly being, she’s brought the cavalry, or at least, the goods. A pair of gloves, some water bottles, some measuring tape, what looks like a pair of crutches, and her electronic tablet is there too. All neatly organized in an even spread upon a table, just off to her left.

Next, he’s so damn close he can’t help but notice the thickness of her brows, or the way her body seems slightly more tense with his proximity. She manages to disguise it well, but he can see it regardless. The little shard of discomfort sticking out like a hangnail in her otherwise perfect, respectful posture.

She isn't near as uncomfortable as he is but she definitely doesn't want to be close to him.

It’s both insulting and discomforting, and strangely funny to him. Like he’s even _done_ anything yet ( _yet_ ) to warrant such blatant mistrust. He ain't done shit to deserve such a treatment.

Maybe it was his tattoo or his shiny gold teeth and his wicked grin, his wild hair, or maybe the black nails do it. He’s not sure _why_ , but he’s used to her types all recoiling away from him. Like he’s some sort of unmentionable, a speck of dust they don't wanna risk sullying their goodness.

Suits are all the _same_.

“I would like to start with measurements. As it is the simplest.” The doc gives him a contained, unreadable expression, walking herself gracefully over (the woman moves like a damn swan on water, almost as if floating on air) to grab the rolled up measuring tape.

He eyes both she, and it, warily.

She glides back, stopping before him but never meeting his eyes. “Forgive me for the intrusion, but I need to take the statistics down for fitting your new prosthetic. The design and refinement period can be quite long. It is best we begin as soon as possible.”

He's real aware of what she's doing, and the why, but he still isn't entirely prepared for the intrusion. He can’t help but twitch as she crouches before him, unraveling the tape measurer in an adept sweep that cracks like the far lightning from the window beyond.

Jamison thinks it's a bit smarmy to be thinkin’ improper thoughts about a professional lady (and a stranger, no less) just trying to do her damn job, but then again, he _is_ a smarmy bastard. He's just a red blooded bloke at the end of the day, one who's life has been spent either with inventions or in the hospital more often than not.

Its extra hard to ignore how close they are, so he distracts himself in typical fashion. An uncouth cackle of laughter escaping his trap, easy as water through a grate. His crooked front teeth gleaming in a smile that barely procures a glance from the other in the room.

He remains seated in his wheelchair, tense and thankful that he’s seated, wearing his own clothes instead of the scratchy hospital pajamas. Luckily, he isn’t getting a stiffy or anything, he ain’t that pathetic, but for once he’s glad he don’t gotta stand still while she goes about her business. At least if he’s sitting down, his fidgeting and awkwardness won’t be as noticeable. He hopes.

It must not be.

Dr. Vaswani doesn’t seem to be paying him any attention, her gaze is cooly pinned to her stint. It gives him a reason to somewhat relax, though not entirely. His golden eyes scanning her with open, unattended interest (and apprehension) as she moves. Her slender, prim hands move the tape measurer up towards his knee first, and he almost flinches.

The little metal bit is cold as it lays atop his kneecap, just below the ripped off hem of his pants that he had functioned into shorts. He fashioned both sides to look the same, even though he only needed one side up. He couldn’t very well have one up and one down, and leaving the empty side down was a pain. He finds that when he lets the fabric hang, it’s easier to accidentally snag on things, or tangle it up with his other leg beneath the blankets. So he developed the habit of making all of his pants into ripped-off shorts instead.

She says nothing and doesn’t look up at him, she just lines up the listless tape measurer against the center of his shin. It bounces against his skin until her fingers tighten it properly. He shivers at the feeling of her slim digits, the tops of her fingers, slipping down his skin to the base of his ankle.

Gritting his teeth against more cackles and unchecked sounds, he finds that the almost inappropriate excitement he initially felt has quieted. Instead he feels a near overwhelming well of discomfort and humility.

He barely remembers what it was like when he lost his arm.

No one really sees his arm-stump these days except for Mako and sometimes a nurse checks up on it.

He’s had his prosthetic arm for so long, he doesn’t have to deal with that sort of thing. He’s learned to love it even. Own up to the questioning looks when they take in the sight of the gaudy, orange-painted metal limb. It’s fancy in it’s own way. A whole lot fancier than some lame fleshy dangly bit. He might even like it _more_ than his good arm.

But his leg isn’t like that.

He obviously doesn’t have a replacement yet, seein’ as that’s what she’s measuring for. It feels wretchedly exposing and awkward to have his glaring disfigurement so very accessible to her.

Just as he’s beginning to tap his fingers in impatience and disquiet, she abruptly pulls away. Quickly grabbing her tablet, she enters the numbers deftly, tape measurer laying across her folded legs.

Her eyes direct up unexpectedly to see him glowering her direction and pauses in the act of putting it aside. The tablet hovers in the air for a second as she sticks him with a questioning gaze, before she sits it down. It’s locked again, unfortunately, so he can’t even read what she wrote to distract himself.

“I shall continue now?” It sure _sounds_ like a question, a distinct inflection on her deep, rich voice; as if he has any right to say _no_. It’s probably just a courtesy, he guesses. He wonders if she’s asking or telling, or why she’d bother to ask at all.

He runs his tongue over his teeth and looks away from her with a skittish glance. “Yeah whatever. Do whatcha gotta. Don’t prolong the torture, yeah?”

 

Jamison understands. He truly does get it; the reason she’s doing all this. He’s a bit of an engineer himself. He ain’t stupid enough not to know why measuring is required for fitting a new prosthetic. He sure as hell ain’t that daft, but it’s still bloody pain.

It’s just...weird, yeah? It makes him _feel_ weird, and he ain’t sure he likes it.

“It’s no such thing as torture.” She counters tightly, neither sounding humored nor annoyed. “I will continue now.” This time it’s not a question, for sure, though she does cast him a mildly appraising look before she dives back in.

She takes her little measurer up and this time she’s quickly moving and chasing the thing around his calf, just below the kneecap. He giggles (though not out of happiness or amusement) as her fingers case over the sensitive skin at the back of his knee, and again when she moves to the top of his feet.

When she next moves to hoist his foot up, grab it and extend it for better access to the bottom, he pulls it out of reach with a jerk. His hands shooting out like a shield before him, signaling her to stop.

“Now hold on there,” he laughs again, a nervous, manic sound. “My feets are size 12 in boots, that’s all ya need right?”

“Absolutely not, if I do not properly take the measurements, there’s no guarantee the sizes will equate.” She’s frozen in her spot, fingers still lingering in the air before her like she’s about to grab him and it makes him anxious.

“I don’t much care if they’re a little off.” He shrugs, attempting to look casual.

“I cannot simply estimate the sizes, that would be irresponsible and unacceptable. I can make a perfect replica so long as I take accurate measurements.” She looks perplexed now, a strange inquisition contorting her gorgeous features until they look pinched and off-center. “I do not understand why you would not prefer a perfect model.”

“Listen, sheila,” her eyes narrow at his comment but she doesn’t interrupt. “I just can’t let ya near me footsies. Not unless you’re keen on having a black eye or maybe losing a tooth.” Despite himself, and the fact that it’s probably unwise, he finds himself cracking a grin at her.

“I do not understand.” She admits, looking lost for a moment and it’s oddly endearing in a way it shouldn’t be.

“It _tickles_ ,” he clarifies with a snort. “Listen, when people get near my tickly bits, I ain’t responsible for any bodily harm they come across. It’s better just to cark the whole foot on the thing, nixo. Gimme a peg leg, if ya gotta.”

She pauses in consideration, seemingly working this conundrum out and he watches her with mirth that somehow helps all of his previous apprehension disappear considerably. The concerning weight it had pressed between each of his ribs, evaporated away leaving only a sense of amusement in their wake. “So then, you are _ticklish_ ? _That_ is why you refuse a perfectly accurate prosthetic?”

“Can’t and won’t compromise me values. Don’t allow anyone near me feet, not even suits and prober types. Ain’t ready to be held liable. Besides, I already told the Doc I would make my own prosthetic but she wouldn’t listen, insisted it be professional and clean and such.” He shook his head at the shame of it. Little did she know, he was planning on making his own anyways, and keeping it secret from the good doc for a while.

His words seem to alter the direction of the conversation slightly, though it wasn’t his intention originally when mentioning it. An expression of surprise blossoms over her features.

“Did you make your _own_ prosthetic arm?”

He looks at his fiery orange insert, raising it in the air and wiggling the mechanical fingers, before settling them into a thumbs-up. The paint was a bit worn, but it was properly oiled and worked like a charm, and he’s proud of it. “Too right, I did.”

She looks utterly perplexed. “No one informed me that you are an engineer.” She seems to be thinking to herself.

“Don’t reckon most doctor types think it matters. They won’t let me get my mitts on the new one so, don’t suppose it makes a difference to them.” He lifts one shoulder in a lazy shrug, not surprised at all to hear that they didn’t list it. He leans down and forward in his wheelchair closer to the woman still crouched near to the ground, his good hand cupping around his mouth. Dr. Vaswani draws back as he moves in, placing distance between them as much as possible without standing up or falling on her bum. Her eyes scan his features warily, in a similar fashion to how he had looked at her just earlier. “Listen, Doc, I’ll cut you a dealo, okay? You let me take care of the makin’ myself a new leggo like I planned, and we can just tell them it’s all wrapped up and taken care of, yeah? You ain’t even gotta get your hands dirty; I get me new leg and you ain’t gotta touch my feets.” He’s right pleased with the idea, punctuating it with a wiggle of his eyebrows.

 

The silence persists seconds after he leans back up straight in his wheelchair. After his hand drops down to his lap again, and after enough time that he manages to catch the giggles again. A nervous trembling laugh tumbling from his lips, twitching fingers over his thigh as he waits.

She stares at him with a slightly cross frown, frozen all but stiff in her little crouch.

“I think not. In the future, refrain from attempting to persuade me into lying to my coworkers.” She suddenly bats her hands together, as if wiping away dust and he frowns back at her. “I just need two more measurements, Mr. Fawkes. Afterwards, we can cut our day short.”

He shouldn’t have even tried to play nice with an uptight knocker like her anyways, and he’s already feeling foolish for trying.

She’s clearly gone cross with him, a silence hanging between them that feels engorged with aversive silence. Displeasure lingering on the corners of her full lips, shadows filling in contours of her features that make her look abysmal. He’d be shocked if she managed to speak to him again today, and he’s pretty damn peeved about it.

Why is she so uptight anyways? What, he can’t be a little bit friendly here and there? A spot of conversation might make the world end?

Sure, he’d tried to get out of the thingo, asked if he could make his own leg, but what difference could it make? At the worst, he’d expected a no. A right and proper shut down, freezing him out entirely, seems a bit harsh.

Jamison crosses his arms over his chest and tries desperately hard to sit perfectly, eerily still as she lifts the tape again to measure around his lower thigh. He’d be thankful that she decided to skip up there instead of starting right with his feet, but he’s angry with her, and it just seems like being petty is the only option.

He busies himself with daydreaming up schematics and staring holes into the wall across the room.

A streak of lightning lights up the room and his attention shoots back to Dr. Vaswani at his feet as she finished putting in the measurements for his upper thigh.

Once finished, she lays it in her lap, and he watches her carefully (with such delicacy and focus that it’s once again oddly endearing) roll the tape measurer up into an absolutely perfect, symmetrical circle again. It doesn’t click in until she’s pushing herself to her full height again, standing up with tablet and tape clutched between both of her hands.

He squints suspiciously at her, teeth gnawing at his lower lip. “Donezo?”

She simply nods. “That will be all I require for today.”

“You plannin’ on torturing me over my feetsies tomorrow?”

At this point, he’s resigned to his fate, though not without bitterness and possibly future pranks and mischief. He’s decided never to try joking or suggesting anything to his frigid doctor again, lest she turn him to stone with a hard glare.

He ain’t sure how to feel when she takes a delicate step away, aligning her feet together in ideal form, and gives him a decisive, small headshake. “I have everything I will require, period.”

“What about the ‘perfect model’ business you was so worked up about earlier?” He searches, amber gaze sweeping over her as the gray rainy backdrop behind her makes her into something of a sad work of art.

“I suppose I will have to figure something out.” She doesn’t sound pleased about it, but her words still send a shock of gratefulness through him. “In the meantime, return to your hospital stay, I have work to finish. We will meet here at the same time tomorrow to begin physical training.”  

 

Jamison eyeballs the stern doctor with a surveying sweep, thoughts moving at a constant, turbulent speed as always, and somewhere among the mess, he pinpoints surprise; surprise that she seems to have given in. It’s far too early to tell, but it makes this whole debacle into something of a mystery. Jamison Fawkes much enjoys mysteries.

 

There's just something about summer morning storms.

  


 

 

 

Most things have a beginning and an end but apparently nobody gave Mako the memo.

Jamison bites his cheek, a focused frown pinching his thick eyebrows as he attempts concentrating on the small, mounted television near the foot of his bed. It’s a particularly daunting task in the face of his best mate, just to his right, who’s staring daggers at him.

He ignores them extremely pointedly, and with great gusto (as well as great burden).

It’s not an easy feat, consider Mako has been directing a centralized stare his direction for the past 25 minutes.

It takes Jamison merely 30 to break.

“Got something on my face mate, or you got somethin to say?” He huffs, sending his large pal a tempered gaze.

“S’just,” Mako begins, his voice a deep rumble like a bass drum in a quiet room, “you ain’t said nothing about your therapy meeting s’all.”

“Yeah, and?” It ain’t even a question and he redirects his messy blond head back towards the quiet television show they’re both apparently no longer really watching.

He’s laying in his hospital bed, his good leg stretched out and his stump propped up on a pillow. Several hours ago, when he returned from the chat fest with his very unfriendly doctor, he was pleased to see Mako had dropped in to spend a tick with him. But each tick since was becoming a bit burdensome.

“ _And_ , I figured you’d be blabbin’ by now.”

“Don’t got too much to say. Doc is a right nag. Never seen a sheila so uptight.” He shivers at the thought.

Mako sinks back in the arm chair that’s almost too small for his girth, propping his feet up on the edge of Jamison's mattress. “S’that all?”

“Well whaddya mean _‘S’that all’,_ of course it is. The short and long of it. She’s wound up tighter than hell, the next 3 weeks Imma be bored shitless, and that’s if she don’t preach me ear off. ”

The television volume is too low, but Jamison stares at it anyways, straining his ears to try to hear anything and failing miserably.

“Sounds like a right drop.”

 

He thinks of the way the rainy window pane framed the Docs form, a thoughtful, distant expression on her features as she stared at him there in his chair. Leaving him with one more thing to think about, one more pain in his ass to deal with in the future.

“Damn right.” He agrees, not shooting his best mate another glance. Instead he folds his good knee, arching it up beneath the blanket and propping his mechanical arm atop his kneecap.

Still. Jamison ain’t too convinced about the doc. Because now that he takes his tally of it, she don’t seem too bad, truth be told. But he isn’t ready to admit that just yet.

 

**Author's Note:**

> i had a lot of help with this fic, a few beta readers and some people who gave me lots of inspiration and second opinions. thanks to all of you. including @teampurple, @amethysia, @h4ngetsu, and @mysteriousdreaming. forever thanks. i love you very much for your help :")


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